V E R I T A S -- V O S -- L I B E R A B I T
by Anthem of the Lonely
Summary: So, you wake up to find yourself in Amestris. A chance to stop people from dying, right? But every story has a catch, and yours is Griffin Friar. The boy who gets dragged in with you, somehow managing to enrage an entire cult in the process. You're going to kill him - if the bounty hunters don't get him first. [Reimagining of The Art of Breaking. Eventual Havoc/OC and Envy/OC.]
1. Chapter 1: Back to the Beginning Again

**Alright, so this is basically a reimagining / rewrite of my newly discontinued story "The Art of Breaking", but with a lot of differences, so it stands on its own.**

**If you're new here, congrats! I hope you enjoy the misadventures of my two poor narrators. (The POV switches either every chapter or every two chapters between Lorelei and Griffin.)**

**Disclaimer****: I don't own FMA in any way. This serves for the entire story.**

**Chapter One – Back to the Beginning Again**

Lorelei Clemens

In retrospect, I should have known better than to charge at a mass-murderer while pretending I was a prison guard. I'll admit that it wasn't one of my brightest ideas, that's for sure.

Okay, I know that might be a bit confusing.

So, while I don't really want to go into the details, here's the full situation.

This is gonna get ugly.

* * *

><p>I don't know why I'm suddenly <em>not <em>in my bed, but I'm not happy with it. Especially now that I realize I'm shoved in some sort of pitch-black supply closet, with what I presume to be a broom handle stabbing into my back.

Somehow I manage to turn on the light without killing myself. Even in the incredibly dim space, my suspicions are confirmed – it _is _a supply closet, even smaller than I originally thought. It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic, but still, I want to get out of here as soon as possible, even if I'm okay with tight spaces.

I look for the handle; once I find it, I turn it and ram the door open, falling out into the hallway. Literally, I _fall _onto my hands and knees.

But that's what brings my attention to my strange choice of attire.

"An Amestrian military uniform?"

I'm actually wearing one, one that looks strangely real. I don't recall ever – oh, you have _got _to be kidding me.

"No, Lorelei, it can't be real. Stand up and keep walking, you idiot."

I pull myself to my feet and stumble down the white hallway without really paying attention to where I'm going.

Soon, the only thing I've discerned about my location is that I'm completely, _hopelessly_ lost. It's like a godforsaken maze in here, and did I mention that I _freaking_ _hate_ mazes?

"I swear, I'm gonna kill whoever's idea this was," I mutter, shaking my head as I frantically turn another corner. "I'll _kill_ you, and I won't regret a thing. You hear that? I'm coming for you, you little bastard!"

At first, I'm so wrapped up in yelling at the sky – uh, ceiling – that I don't notice the voices. And by voices, I mean real people talking. I'm crazy in an entirely different way.

Trust me, really, my craziness will start to make itself apparent soon.

"…You know the things Bradley ordered us to do, the kind of man he really is. That's why you killed all those officers, isn't it, to send him a message."

Laughter from a different person rings out, full of derivative amusement, "I think you've got me all wrong…"

The person keeps talking, but I've stopped listening to him when I realize exactly where I am.

"…The reason I killed all of those men was because I could. It's that simple."

"That's too bad, Kimblee, that truly is too bad."

I _should _have stopped walking when I first recognized the voices, but did I? Obviously not, I just kept going like any stupid teen girl in a B-grade horror movie.

Of course I have to end up face-to-face with Isaac McDougal, who's just turning to walk out.

My eyes dart to the prison guard who's frozen next to the entrance to the cell, and I know that my fate is sealed and will be handed to me on a silver platter in the next couple of seconds.

But he stands there, _staring _at me like _I'm _the weird one, which I suppose I am. It's not every day that an eighteen-year-old girl runs around a prison in a military suit. Unless, somehow, it _is_ an everyday occurrence and I was unaware of it.

Apparently, McDougal's reluctant to attack me, Amestrian military suit or no Amestrian military suit.

After nearly a minute of standing three feet away and staring back at him, I try to pull off a fake smile that _should _assure him I have no idea who he is, but comes across as more of a grimace. To distract him from this, I manage to stutter, "Uh, hi?"

I really should work on my introduction skills.

But _"Let's be best friends!" _isn't much better.

He blinks at me, drawing a blank on what to do in a situation like this. Clearly, his revenge plot never involved running into _me_.

More awkward silence – I can see matching tattoos and friendship bracelets in our near future already.

"You're part of the military?"

No, I'm probably just hallucinating that I'm in Central Prison among murderers, and that I found myself in a military-issued uniform. Because that's crazy, and I don't want to sound like a crazy person in front of a crazy murderer.

I nod and say, "Yeah…"

"But you aren't carrying a weapon." He's simply stating a fact, but it's definitely going to morph into an accusation eventually.

"Guess I forgot it," I reply, tensing myself to run like a thousand evil ferrets are chasing me.

He seems to come to the conclusion that there is something fishy about this whole situation – _finally_. I was beginning to worry about his sanity. Well, his ability to observe, since I know for sure by now he's insane.

I realize he's about to charge about two seconds before he actually charges. All of the blood drops out of my face, and I turn to run, only to trip over my own feet because I'm not used to walking in my stupid new boots.

This turns out to be a good thing, seeing as he expects me to run and therefore overshoots, lunging where my shoulder would've been and tripping over me.

Now it's simply a contest of who can get up off of the ground first, the murderer, or the small – smallish – teenager with no athletic skills whatsoever. On second thought, I'm not even going to _try_ to get up; it'll just be useless.

_Shockingly_, McDougal manages to get up before me, yanking me up by my collar and slamming me against the nearest wall like I weigh no more than a ragdoll. My feet aren't even touching the ground, and I'm quickly finding out that being pinned to a wall by your throat can mess with your breathing.

"_He _sent you, didn't he?"

There are a lot of _he's_ in Amestris, but I doubt McDougal's talking about Garfiel. "Bradley?" I choke out.

He nods and presses his arm harder into my throat. "What do you know?"

By now, my vision is swarming; I don't have the air to stay conscious for any more than a few seconds, let alone tell a mass murderer that he's actually just a fictional character. That leaves my surefire way to get people to leave me alone. Oh hell, I _really _wanted to avoid this.

Time for the Ominous Latin Chanting.

"O Fortuna, velut luna statu variabilis–"

By now, he's realized that something is _seriously _wrong with me, way more wrong than he had formerly estimated. He practically jumps five feet away from me, but I can't even bring myself to care that I crash to the ground.

I'm more focused on the fact that Latin doesn't _exist _in this world, which makes me look even crazier. Chanting in a dead language is one thing. Chanting in a nonexistent language is in quite another ballpark. Maybe memorizing all of the lyrics to "O Fortuna"for Latin class _was _a good move on my part.

"Semper crescis aut decrescis; vita detestabilis–"

Due to my breathing being restricted, my voice is ridiculously high-pitched and raspy. Honestly, I sound like Gollum, and that's obviously not a good thing.

Reciting Latin poems – songs, whatever – in my best _Gollum impression_. No wonder everybody thinks I'm absolutely insane, it's because I _am_.

"Nunc obdurat et tunc curat ludo mentis aciem, egestatem, potestatem dissolvit ut glaciem…"

McDougal stares down at me as I continue chanting. He slowly starts backing away, keeping his hand on his gauntlet just in case I try to flip out and actually attack him. "So you aren't really a guard, are you?"

He mutters this under his breath, but I hear it anyway, so I decide to keep screwing with him. Hey, _he _attacked _me_ first. It's justified.

I whip my head up and slowly nod, grinning my best Cheshire cat grin. "Let me guess, it was the ritual that tipped you off," I deadpan, sighing.

This seems to confuse him even more. "…Ritual?"

"Oh, you haven't heard of the great ritual, now have you? We're planning to open the Gates of Hell, releasing our leader into the world for the first time in centuries. It will obviously be, well, completely magnificent. We just need a human sacrifice to set our plan into motion. That's the reason we came here today."

"And by human sacrifice, you mean…?" He gestures at himself skeptically.

"Of course we mean you, Isaac McDougal. We've been watching you for a _very _longtime, Isaac. Please just come with us peacefully; we'd really hate to have to ruin _another _candidate."

McDougal takes another step backwards, his hand still on his gauntlet. "The hell do you mean, _another _candidate?"

I shrug and answer, "Oh, right. You're the eighth on the list. Number nine is your dear friend in the cell, Solf Kimblee. So, if you react like the others, we'd just use him instead."

"That's intriguing," Kimblee says, "you've been watching me, too?"

"We watch everyone. Now, Isaac, will you come peacefully or not?"

He starts to do his fancy water-bending trick – dammit, I mean alchemy. Maybe it's his way of saying, "Hell no."

Sigh. I really freaking hate the Ominous Latin Chanting.

"Sors immanis et inanis, rota tu volubilis, status malus, vana salus semper dissolubilis–"

Gradually, I make my voice seem even more demonic and gravelly, until I'm convinced I'll never be able to talk again. But that pales in comparison to my current problem, which happens to be headed straight towards my face as I'm letting my inner cultist shine through.

_An icicle. You're sending an icicle at my forehead. Oh, you have got to be _kidding_ me!_

I do what most stupid movie background characters could never figure out: I just roll out of the way. (Really, it's not that hard.) The icicle – I still can't believe he _actually_ did that – smashes to pieces on the wall behind me, and I bolt up to my feet, glaring at him.

"Obumbrata et velata mihi quoque niteris; nunc per ludum dorsum nudum fero tui sceleris…"

Apparently, McDougal's had enough of my silly little ritualistic chanting, because he takes out a knife.

_My weakness, it's… small knives. Anything but knives!_

"This is getting interesting," Kimblee mutters from his cell, and I can _hear _the smirk in his voice.

I'm either going to have to run, or resort to my backup-backup plan, because it's pretty clear that the Ominous Latin Chanting isn't going to cut it this time. And, since I despise running of any sort...

Crap.

"Hey, you moron. I know something about our dear Fuhrer Bradley that I suspect you do too, if the fact that you're rampaging around this city is any indication." I tilt my head at him and grin, rocking back and forth on my heels as I wait for his answer.

"That he's a Homunculus?"

Seriously, man. You really shouldn't go blurting that out to random cultists, you know. What if I was working for Bradley, and I just wanted to see how much you knew?

"No, I meant that he has a weird obsession with melons. What's a… whatever the heck you just said? Human curry, was it?"

I can tell that his brain is struggling to comprehend what I just said. Quite honestly, _my _brain is having the same problem. What the heck is wrong with me? The fact that Bradley _does _have a weird obsession with melons is entirely irrelevant.

McDougal blinks and sighs, "Never mind."

So that's how you want to play it, huh? "I'm guessing you're choosing to fight instead of come along quietly. What a pity."

"Why." He doesn't even bother to _ask _it; instead, he just says it flatly.

"Because I really hate running!"

There's no way I can take down a freaking _murderer_, especially one holding a freaking _knife_. If I had a weapon of my own, I probably still would end up dead. I'm just that lucky, you see?

So yeah, I reluctantly start running in the direction of the wide open door. Of course, this is all while shrieking the Greek alphabet at the top of my lungs – trust me, it's a legitimate strategy. If my assumption that Greece didn't exist here is correct, I'm basically running and screaming non-existent, vaguely cultist words.

Seconds after I _start _running, I immediately trip over my boots again and end up crashing into McDougal. Somehow, I accidentally end up grabbing his knife before falling onto the ground a few feet away.

Dammit. _This _is why I don't run.

He stares at me unblinkingly for a full minute, disbelief written all over his face. "What… What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Well, I kill people and I eat hands. That's… umm, that's two things." I begin to realize what I'm saying as I'm saying it, and my voice gradually gets slower until it trails off. No. Somebody tell me I did _not _just say that. If there was a chance to take back my words, I definitely would do it right now.

McDougal blinks.

Apparently, I did just say that. Really, of _all _the times to quote Llamas with Hats, my brain had to choose _right now_? My god, I seriously need to work on holding my fricking tongue from now on, unless I want to die within two days.

Without saying anything about my sudden cannibalistic tendencies, he simply pulls out another knife – because how many knives can one person keep on themselves at one time? I'm pretty sure the limit does not exist.

"Are you just going to stand there until I die of boredom?" I mutter, holding my own knife – on second glance, it's more a stiletto than anything else – in my palm, turned so it won't cut me.

All it takes is a single second, and…

Oh, please not the being lifted up and slammed into the wall part again.

Because life is a heartless jerk, I'm yanked up by the collar and slammed into the wall, one arm – the left, to be precise – pinned between my shoulder and his arm.

It's turns out to be a good thing that I'm left-handed, seeing as I'm holding the stiletto in that hand. I grit my teeth and rotate the blade until I'm pretty sure it's turned far enough, ignoring the fact that it's digging into my hand.

I close my eyes and wrench my arm out from under his, lashing out with the knife and slashing downwards once I think I've made contact.

And, just like that, the pressure around my throat vanishes, although I'm out cold in a matter of seconds, so I don't really have time to notice the difference.

* * *

><p>"What… Why can't I see anything?"<p>

Stumbling to my feet, I rub a soaking wet hand over my eyes, but it doesn't change anything at all. Everything's still pitch black.

It must've been a nightmare, and I just fell off my bed, that's it. Any second now, my vision will clear up, and I'll be able to find the light. It shouldn't be that hard; it'll only be a few feet away, after all.

I take a step forward, then another when I don't hit anything.

"What exactly was that chant you just did? It sounded quite intriguing, I do have to say."

I vaguely recognize the voice, but I can't be bothered to figure out who it is at the moment. It's probably my dad, but he _should _recognize Latin, since he majored in it…

So, for the time being, I'll go with sarcasm.

"It's a poem – O Fortuna – that was written in the language of a now-extinct civilization. Really, you should know which one by now." It's not like there are _that _many now-extinct civilizations that most people know about.

"Xerxes, correct?"

"Yeah," I say without even listening to what they're saying. "Whatever you say, man."

There's a pause for a moment before they say, "I'm assuming you know the translation."

Wow, four for you, Glen Coco, you won an award. If I didn't know the translation, then there might have been a chance that I would've raised up a demon from hell. Even though I'm more the type of person who'd _accidentally _raise demons up from hell than _intentionally_, I certainly wouldn't do it by chanting ominously in Latin. That's so cliché.

My vision is starting to clear, and I eventually realize that I'm _not _in my room, but in that same prison, standing in front of a cell.

If this means everything was _not _a dream, then…

"Where's McDougal." My voice is oddly calm, and I don't ask it so much as _hiss _it.

"…You don't remember," Kimblee mutters under his breath after being silent for over a minute. "If you really want to find out, then you should look behind you." It sounds like he's smirking, but I just ignore it.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? I look over my shoulder, wondering why he would tell me to do something as simple as that.

Oh my god.

The stiletto, which I'd been holding earlier, is stabbed entirely through McDougal's neck, blood spilling onto the floor. I press a hand to my mouth, instinctively swallowing the bile that rises in the back of my throat. Unfortunately, I remember that both of my hands were – are – soaking wet a few seconds too late.

"I…I did this. I killed him, right?"

"Are you expecting me to say no, miss? Because I'm certainly not going to. You stabbed him in the throat, and then you dragged the knife down as far as it would go. It's not my style, but I'll admit that it works. It's a shame you weren't in Ishval; that would've been a good technique."

How can Kimblee be so nonchalant about this? I just _killed _someone, and all he's thinking about is how he massacred people back in Ishval. And, on top of that, I'm pretty sure he can't even see that much outside of his cell, so he had to _infer_ how I killed McDougal.

He's probably still reminiscing, so I'm going to have to find some other way of dealing with this situation. Either I snap him out of his sick mind, or I distract myself from the dead body that I'm just feet away from.

"Canto I, 'The Dark Wood of Error'. Midway in our life's journey, I went astray from the straight road and woke to find myself alone in a dark wood. How shall I say what wood that was!–"

"What are you doing?" For some reason, Kimblee sounds more confused than anything else.

I shrug, not really knowing what I'm doing myself. "I'm reciting another poem until I fall into a coma. Are you going to listen or not?"

He sighs, and I can practically hear him rolling his eyes as he says, "Apparently, I have to."

"I never saw so drear, so rank, so arduous a wilderness! Its very memory gives a shape to fear. Death could scarce be more bitter than that place! But since it came to good, I will recount all that I found revealed there by God's grace…"

Honestly, I never thought I would end up reciting Dante's Inferno to a bored mass murderer, all while pointedly ignoring the dead body.

Of course, I don't end up _finishing _it. I only get fifteen pages in, to the point where they talk to Charon, Hell's Ferryman.

"'Woe to you depraved souls! Bury here and forever all hope of Paradise: I come to lead you to the other shore, into eternal dark, into fire and ice. And you who are living yet, I say begone from these who are dead.' But–"

That's when I hear someone – two people, to be exact – walking in my direction. Snapping my mouth closed, I turn around so I'm facing the door and lament their horrible sense of timing.

For a moment, everything's silent.

"Hughes, what're you doing here? I'm just following up on a lead; you didn't have to tag along. Besides, even if McDougal _was _here, he'll be long gone."

"Hey, I was bored, okay? And it can't hurt to check, in case this lead is reliable."

No. Oh, _please _no. The voices are gradually getting closer, and I _know _who they belong to. And within a few seconds, my suspicions are proven to be correct. Maybe I should go into fortune-telling or something like that.

Roy Mustang gets one step into the room before he can fully see what's in it. He freezes, not knowing whether or not to look at me or McDougal. "Hughes…" He calls, his voice unnaturally high-pitched, "you might want to see this."

Within a few seconds, Maes Hughes follows him in, surveying the scene. He blinks rapidly and tilts his head at me, making me feel like I'm under a microscope.

That, or I'm a lab rat. Or maybe I'm a lab rat under a microscope.

"Hello? You can hear me, right?" Hughes asks loudly, as if talking to a small child.

This is going to be a _very _long night…

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you guys enjoyed this! I certainly enjoyed writing it, that's for sure. {Sorry for taking such a long time to upload; I <em>thought <em>I was feeling better and then it went back downhill.**

**Lorelei's Ominous Latin Chanting is actually from "Carmina Burana", a collection of ancient Latin poems that were later turned into songs. What she recites is from the first two verses of the first – and most well-known – poem, "O Fortuna".**

**As for Dante's Inferno, it's a real book by a real man named Dante Alighieri. It's the first book in The Divine Comedy, and it's seriously the ancient equivalent of self-insert fanfiction.**

…**Review and I'll give you a virtual cookie? Ask questions and I'll give you _two_ virtual cookies**

_**{Also: Would it make more sense narrative-wise to switch POVs every chapter or every two chapters? I'm having a bit of trouble figuring this out, so I'll go with what the readers prefer.}**_


	2. Chapter 2: Faust, Midas, and Myself

**Chapter Two – Faust, Midas, and Myself**

Griffin Friar

"Mister? Sorry, but you can't sleep in that fountain. It's against Father Cornello's rules."

Suddenly, I'm awake. Maybe not _wide _awake, but awake enough to discern that yes, I _am _in a fountain. One that's currently filled with…wine. Might explain the fact that my head feels like it wants to curl up in a hole and die, and that I'm soaking wet.

Wait, I don't drink, and I think I'd remember falling asleep inside of a wine fountain. Something is definitely wrong.

I glance up, squinting at the sudden brightness.

A girl's standing in front of me, the sun reflecting off of her extremely bright pink hair. Hold on, it's just her bangs that are pink; the rest of her hair is brown. (Some sort of weird fad, I guess?) "Mister?" She asks again, waving a hand in front of my face. Probably to see if I drank any wine or something stupid like that. "Are you okay?"

Quite simply, that's not what I was expecting her to ask. "Uh. Where exactly am I?"

"You're at the great city of Liore, of course! You're here to see Father Cornello, right?"

Again with this Father Cornello person. I take a moment to think before asking, "What day is it? I can't really remember."

The girl tilts her head to one side as she surveys me. "…Tuesday."

Oh yes, that's very helpful. I don't even bother responding to it.

Staring at me critically, she shakes her head like she's disappointed in me. "You drank some of the wine, didn't you?"

"No!" I say in a rush, "I think I just hit my head or something. It's really not that big of a deal." I'm about to sit up – albeit very, very slowly – when I remember that I'm _soaking wet_. "Do you have a towel, by any chance?"

A concussion. That's the most likely explanation for all of this, especially since I've already had four. (What? It's not _my _fault people have a very annoying habit of accidentally falling on my head, both in and out of gym class. Well, at least half of those times were not my fault, and the other two were debatable.)

After a moment, the girl nods and turns around, scanning the area. "Hey, Jason, can you come over here for a minute?"

"You realize I'm _right here_?" A blonde guy suddenly appears next to her. "Anyways, what is it this time? Let me guess, I have to beat up some unbelievers again. This is getting ridiculous."

So _that's _what she meant by _Father _Cornello. They're all religious nutcases.

Alright, so maybe that was a bit harsh, but I haven't ever had good experiences with people like them.

She splutters for a moment, eventually exclaiming, "_What_? Jason, you're the ridiculous one. I just wanted you to make sure he doesn't accidentally drown while I'm getting him a towel. You can handle that, right?" When he rolls his eyes in response, she simply sighs and walks away.

"I take it you don't go around beating up nonbelievers. That's a relief."

"Keep living in your fantasy world, buddy," he says, shrugging. "The name's Jason Pelion. How old are you? You kinda look like you're a twelve-year-old midget." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry, that could come across as rude."

Did he seriously say that _could _come across as rude?

"Griffin Friar, and I'm eighteen."

Jason smirks. "Then I'm sure you'll be a _big _hit with the Father – _all _of them, really. They _love _people like you."

"…What the hell are you implying?"

"There are children out here, you son of a bitch!" He pretends to be horrified at himself for half of a second. "_Dammit_, I did it again!"

I stare up at him in confusion and ask, "What's wrong with you?"

"You're sitting in a wine fountain, and you think something's wrong with _me_. Wow. You're one messed up dude–" He keeps blabbering about how screwed-up-in-the-head I am, but I tune him out.

Since my eyes have justgotten used to the overwhelming brightness, I have finally noticed that the surrounding area is basically a desert. The people milling about either don't seem to notice the heat or they don't care. Or they've gotten used to it, which is the most likely explanation, I suppose.

But this place doesn't seem like a modern twenty-first century city, that's for sure.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "What year is it?"

Jason snaps his mouth shut and raises his eyebrows. "You're piss-drunk, aren't you? It's 1914."

That's – that's an entire century's difference. (What. The. Hell.)

There's only one explanation for this. I must've ended up in some sort of, I dunno, some sort of acting camp where everyone has to pretend they're in the past or something like that. Nothing else would explain this.

"Okay, can you break character for a second? What's the real year?"

He stares at me and slowly enunciates, "Friar, you're extremely delusional. I'm pretty sure the people here will stone you if they hear you talking like this. So you should just drop it, okay?"

I'm about to reply when I see the girl heading our way, promised towel in hand.

"Rose!" Jason calls. "Oh, thank Leto, you've come to save me from this complete lunatic!" His previously serious demeanor drops in half of a second, and I'm left wondering what all that was about.

Well, maybe it's a good idea to keep my mouth shut. Apparently, all the people in this town are cultists, after all. And you can never trust a cultist. That much I learned from sixth grade math class.

Don't ask about sixth grade math class. It was a traumatic experience for everyone involved.

As soon as she reaches the fountain, the girl – Rose, according to Jason – hands me the towel. "Here you go!" She chirps. "I also brought you some spare clothes, because yours are a little wet at the moment."

Oh. I hadn't thought of that. I would've been walking around the city, looking like a very drunk Loch Ness Monster. Some friendly advice? Never fall asleep inside a wine fountain. "Thanks, I guess, but where am I supposed to change? I'm not changing in the middle of the street."

"That," Jason sighs, shaking his head dramatically, "is the difference between you and me, Grif."

She blinks, and then smiles slightly. "There's a nearby bathroom you can change in. And I can't believe you got him to tell you his name, Jason. You're not exactly the nicest person."

"He told me I looked like a twelve-year-old midget."

"…How old are you?"

"Eighteen," I growl, grinding my teeth together.

What, does _everyone _think I look twelve? That might explain why I keep getting pulled over by the cops whenever I'm driving.

Laughing hysterically at the look on Rose's face, Jason nods and gasps, "That was my reaction! He does _not _look like an eighteen-year-old, does he?"

"_He _is standing right here, you know."

"Actually, you're sitting inside of a fountain filled with wine. There's a difference."

I shoot a pointed look at him and stand up, wrapping the towel around myself like I'm a preteen girl on the beach. "_Now _he is standing right here," I repeat after I walk out onto the street. "I'll take the clothes, before I die of humiliation?"

She inclines her head and passes the bag to me. "Sorry if they're a little big. I was in a rush, so these were the only ones I could find."

Inside is a cultist outfit, identical to Jason's except that it's black and his is white. (He is nearly a foot taller than me. This might prove to be a problem.) "Uh. Thanks. As for the location of this aforementioned bathroom?"

Rose simply points to it, giggling.

Of _course _it had to have the gigantic "BATHROOM" sign – nineteen of them, in fact. As for how I managed to overlook all nineteen, I don't know. "Oh."

Five minutes later, I come back outside in a way-too-fricking-big outfit. It makes me feel even shorter than I actually am – trust me, that's an accomplishment.

But, with the exception of Jason, everybody is now gathered around a random old dude, asking him questions with extreme enthusiasm. Going by his weird getup, I assume he's some sort of priest. He certainly looks like one.

"Who's this guy?" I hiss once I walk over to Jason.

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye; when he realizes my question is actually genuine, he grins. "That's our _dear _Father Cornello. He and I don't get along very well, mainly because he's under the impression that I'm not a 'real Letoist.' He's right, you know. This religion of his is utter bull."

"Why… Why would you stay in a religion that you don't even believe in?"

Shrugging, Jason says, "I got a tip that, if I came here, this whole thing would eventually pay off. You see, I've been waiting for something for a very long time now, and I think–"

"Hello, I don't believe we've met."

When I look up, Cornello's standing in front of us, beaming down at me like a benevolent saint and glaring at Jason. All at the same time. This dude is unreal.

And I thought two-faced was just an expression.

"Are you new to Letoism? The traditional outfit for new converts is–"

_How the hell do I respond to this? He thinks I'm a fricking _cultist_._

Jason plasters a smile on his face and cheerfully interrupts, "Grif here's my cousin who's visiting from Central. I was showing him around Liore, but he fell in the fountain, so that's why he's in a black outfit at the moment. I'm sorry, Father, but I was in a rush."

Clamping his mouth shut, Cornello forces a grin and reluctantly nods. "Of course, Son, God Leto is pleased. Are you having a good time in Liore so far?"

Since the question is obviously directed towards me, I decide to take Jason's lead. "Umm, yeah, it's been a lot of, uh, fun. And, from what I've heard about it so far, Letoism sounds like a very, erm, enlightening religion."

(Wait, does _everybody_ refer to this Leto dude as God Leto? That must get exhausting.)

If Cornello recognizes that I'm totally faking it, he doesn't show it. "That's great to hear." The weird thing is: he manages to say it in a semi-authentic voice. Quite surprising.

"Isn't it?" Jason says, injecting as much happiness as possible into those two words. "As you always say, everyone starts believing in Leto at one time or another. It's better now than later, right?"

I just nod weakly, still unsure of how I got myself into this mess.

Cornello's about to say something, but then he glances out of the corner of his eye, presumably realizing that hundreds of cultists – um, believers – are watching him intently. Instead, he gives them what I'm sure he thinks is an award-winning smile. "You hear that, my fellow believers? I have converted this nonbeliever to Letoism!"

Wait. What?

The crowd starts cheering in complete unison, and I'm left wondering if everyone in this town is under mind control or something.

"Sucks to be you, mate," Jason comments, slowly edging away from the bunch of rabid cultists.

I stare at him blankly. "You _think_?"

Shaking his head, he says, "Nah, it is way worse than whatever it is you're imagining. They have a full-out festival in honor of you recognizing 'God Leto' as the divine being of this universe. All I've ever seen them eat is that gluten-free vegan crap. I'd love to stay, but I reallycan't, so see ya!"

He's long gone by the time I see that the mob is way too close for comfort.

"…Oh, you have got to be _kidding_ me!"

* * *

><p>Eventually, I manage to drag myself out of the so-called 'festivities', swearing at the top of my lungs.<p>

Yeah, my _cousin_ was right when he told me that the cultists only eat organic crap. But what he neglected to tell me was that their favorite food is _spicy _organic crap.

"My tongue…" I pant, frantically running out of the building in search of something – anything, honestly – to drink. "It's on _fire_!"

"Heh. You're an interesting one, aren't you?"

I look up – not just metaphorically, I actually have to look up – to see a guy standing a couple of feet away from me, smirking.

"I can honestly say not many of them are like you." Guess he sees the stare I send him, because he continues, "They don't tend to scream rather…unique curses, due to thinking that Leto hates profanity."

"Alright, who exactly are you?"

He shrugs and holds his hands up in a defensive posture. "Let's just say I'm a casual observer of sorts. The name's Cain Sherman, and I really hate Letoism. Actually, I pretty much hate Liore in general."

Fair enough. So far, I'm beginning to hate it too.

"Griffin Friar. Did they try to force you to join their cult?"

Sherman doesn't bother to hide his surprise at my random question. "Huh? Oh, it's something like that, I guess. They try to recruit anything that moves. Including, memorably, an honest-to-god tumbleweed. You should've seen what the baptism was like. It wasn't pretty."

They baptized a tumbleweed. And I thought being a cultist made them mental enough already.

I was wrong.

"Hey, Grif? Did you survive the taste test of doom, or–"

Jason walks out of a dark alleyway somewhere, but he completely stops in his tracks once he sees Sherman. "Oh, I see. You're busy."

"You know this guy?" Sherman asks narrowing his purple eyes. Wait, what kind of person has _purple_ eyes? That's not a normal color, right?

I don't really want to talk myself into a minefield, like I have a habit of doing. "Umm. Yes, I kind of do."

"Kind of?" Jason looks offended. "How can you _kind of_ know your cousin, Grif?"

Umm. How do you politely tell somebody to cut it out with the cousin crap? I'm running kinda short on ideas. I can't really snap at him in front of this stranger – wait, what am I saying? _He's_ a stranger too. This whole town is freaking insane.

Probably seeing my confused look and mistaking it for something else, Sherman nods and starts to briskly walk away, calling over his shoulder, "See you around, Friar."

Once the other guy's out of sight, I turn to Jason and glare at him. "Would you stop pretending to be my cousin already? We don't even look alike."

"Tell me, Grif," he sighs, "do you think the people of this town approve very much of outsiders who aren't interested in Letoism?" When he sees me shake my head, he smirks. "Exactly. And what about strangers who appear out of nowhere? How about them?"

"…I'm beginning to see your point."

Jason raises an eyebrow – because raising two is _so much _harder. "Exactly. It took me months for the priests to stop considering me a threat, and I'm playing my role perfectly. You, on the other hand… Your acting skills need some work, dude."

Wait, what? Playing his role perfectly, what's that supposed to mean?

I guess my question must show on my face, because he continues, "I was assigned here by my higher-ups to work undercover until I discover all the information I need."

"So you're a _cop_?"

Grinning, he raises _both _eyebrows. "Ya finally struck the truth. Huh, I didn't think it would take you this long. It's quite obvious, in my mind."

I mutter something under my breath that surely would not be allowed to air on any television show, daytime or not.

"Cacti? I'll have to put that on the bucket list," he mutters. "Anyways, I'll show you to where you'll be staying, Grif. It's not that bad. You'll just have to room with an insane cultist!"

What.

He can't be serious.

* * *

><p>He was serious.<p>

Five hours later, I've given up any hope of ever getting any sleep in this godforsaken town. One thing Jason neglected to tell me about my insane cultist roommate was that he snores worse than any sailor in the history of mankind.

I'm walking down the hallway, minding my own business, when I start to hear voices.

This is just great. I have no idea where I am, and now I'm going crazy.

"–Aren't you not supposed to be in this building if you're not a believer, _Homunculus_?" Oh, just a false alarm; it's only Jason, probably getting into a hissing match with some nonbeliever. "I've found what I'm looking for, so let me take it back and then I'll be out of your palm-tree-like hair for a very long time."

People these days are insane. Who names their kid Homunculus?

"Now, now, Pelion, you remember the deal we made. In exchange for you being allowed to live here in Liore, you have to stay here until the town is fully under _our _control."

Wait, that's _Sherman's _voice. But why would he be in here, of all places, if he hates this town?

I have no idea, but it's probably best to get away from both of them as soon as possible. Since my only other option would be to hide in the nearest closet, and there are no closets in this vicinity, I'll have to go with the speed-walk-for-my-life route.

At least I'm more athletic than that one girl in my grade who managed to never participate in a single gym class for an entire year. The methods she took still scar me to this day, but was her name? Clementine? Yeah, that's it.

The first door I passed is locked, which is why I try to pick it open using a paperclip I found near my bed.

Now that I think about it, my semi-compulsive habit of opening locked doors just to see what's behind them is not the most healthy choice of habits. I should have chosen something else, like gardening.

"My dear boy, _what _are you doing?"

"Picking open this locked door to see what's inside it," I blurt out before I can hold my tongue.

Oh, crap. I just said that to Father Cornello.

He laughs before he realizes I wasn't joking at all, and then he snaps his mouth shut with a click, narrowing his eyes until they're barely slits. "So you're a thief, then? Come here to rob us?"

"Nah, _he's_ not the thief."

"Then – _you_," Cornello hisses once he sees Jason. "_You're _a thief?"

Tilting his head to one side until it looks like he has a broken neck, Jason grins. "Not exactly, my Father. See, I'm more of a bounty hunter than anything else. I had been hired to infiltrate this scam of yours, and infiltrate it I did. All that to retrieve a very precious item." He twists a ring around his finger, one I swear wasn't there before. Then again, neither were the gloves.

Very subtle, Jason. Now everyone and their grandma knows what the item is.

Except… The only other person around us is Cornello, and all bets are off when it comes to him.

"And what'll you do now, boy? You're surrounded."

Of course, in the time it took for me to think that, the Father probably signaled his cultist army to, well, surround us. Did they materialize out of the fricking wall or something? There's not really any other explanation.

"Oh yes," Jason deadpans, "I'm surrounded on all three sides. What_ever_ shall I do?"

"Surrender?" A group of dumb-as-all-hell cultists suggest in complete unison. Like that would actually be an option with him.

Jason laughs. Not a normal, sane laugh, but a full-on, hysterical, borderline-supervillain laugh.

And then his hand shoots out and clasps over the nearest cultist's face. His glove starts to glow a yellowish-white color, and the man crumples to the floor, obviously dead. "Thanks for all the memories," Pelion says in a sing-song voice, moving his hand to the wall behind him. "Consider this a warning. I'll be back for it, you know."

I start to run.

Everything explodes.

* * *

><p>The ringing in my ears drowns everything out, even Cornello's obnoxiously loud voice. And you should trust me, that's quite a feat.<p>

I don't move at all, because I notice one thing: a ring on my finger. I never wear rings.

_Jason Pelion, you overdramatic _idiot_. You landed me in cultist jail. Cultist jail, dude. If they try to convert me to Letoism, I swear I'm going to burst out of here and kill you._

"So, my dear boy, I guess you're not a Letoist after all."

Combined with his extreme tendency to shout all of his words, no matter what the context, the Father's voice is giving me a horrific headache.

"You caught me. I don't believe in an all-powerful god who chooses someone like you to be his divine representative."

Apparently, Cornello doesn't comprehend the thinly-veiled jab in my words, because he asks, "Do you want to start now?"

_I'm so going to _kill _you, Jason Pelion._

* * *

><p><strong>Hello again! I'm finally back. Ish. You know what I mean. Due to school, updates most likely will continue to be at this pace. Also because I have the mind of a goldfish and at times I just am not capable of remembering my first name, let alone replying to people or writing at all. {Sadly, I'm being perfectly serious.}<strong>

**Let's see… Jason's an alchemist, and his particular brand of alchemy will be addressed later. That's really all there is to the technicalities of this chapter.**

**Review and I'll give you a handy-dandy Father Cornello plushie. Perfect for you to practice any kind of voodoo on. Say whose alchemy Jason's is based off of (hint: it's someone in The Art of Breaking) and I'll give you **_**two **_**Father Cornello plushies.**

**And as for the replying to the reviews, because I am a total moron who is incapable of basic thought:**

**_The Elf Alchemist_: Thanks! And does my writing really sound like Rick Riordan's? He's probably my favorite author, so I guess I'm doing a few things right.**

**_Kilari G_: Thanks!**

**_Winrykatbell_: Thanks!**

**_An Arm and a Leg_: Quite a few things are going to be changed from the last one to this. So that means no backtracking scenes, unfortunately. And thanks!**

**_Lilaclily00_: Thanks! Oh, Llamas with Hats. What would I do without you?**


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